


I Understand

by StopitGerald



Category: Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Awkwardness, Catching Up, Old Friends, not ship, the relationships are just mentioned - Freeform, vulnerable conversation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-07
Updated: 2021-02-07
Packaged: 2021-03-12 03:15:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,687
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29253564
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StopitGerald/pseuds/StopitGerald
Summary: Cullen and Mallory Hawke have a lot of catching up to do.
Relationships: Anders/Hawke (Dragon Age), Cullen Rutherford & Hawke, Female Inquisitor/Cullen Rutherford
Kudos: 1





	I Understand

**Author's Note:**

> So this written about my Hawke, Mal, who’s NB, and my cisfem inq Orianna. 
> 
> This is also loose to canon because I’m including details from my personal, narrative version of canon, like that Mal and Anders adopted orphans and such. 
> 
> Hope it’s still a decent read for all of the others who are as crazy about Cullen and Hawke friendship as I am.

They are almost exactly how he remembers them.

That short, choppy, black hair, coupled with those saucer-round green eyes. Rounded face with a prominent chin, always finished off with a shit-eating grin. And still as ambiguous as always.

Some things have changed, though. They’ve aged, evidence is in the small creases around their mouth and eyes, the weary look deep in their gaze, hiding behind the humor. Their speech is slower, more wistful. 

He supposes they’ve had similar thoughts about him, after arriving at Skyhold on Varric’s call. 

They’d been hidden away somewhere far North of Kirkwall, where they’d fled following the start of the rebellion  _ they _ had caused. Partially.

Tucked away in some mountainside hideaway with the children he had seen them take in while they had operated out of their estate in the city, with  _ him.  _ Anders.

They’re married, now, officially, somehow. And though Cullen has  _ much _ to say and  _ many _ opinions about the man himself, he can’t say that he isn’t… well,  _ happy for them. _

They’d always seemed so desperately, unfathomably in love with one another. Even when he had betrayed their trust by going behind their back, Hawke had raised their staff and bared their teeth at anyone who even dared to threaten him. Anything he did was forgiven, simply because Hawke  _ adored _ him.

It’s lost on Cullen, really. He doesn’t know the man besides what he had seen and heard from watching Hawke over the years, but he doesn’t necessarily want to know him, either.

Anders isn’t here, though,  _ in Skyhold.  _ But Hawke  _ is. _

They’d come when Varric had called, needing their guidance and input, considering they played a rather large part in the knowledge of Corypheus’ past. Not to mention their connection to a small group of Wardens that  _ also  _ had plenty of clues concerning the coming battles the inquisition would face. 

It was certainly help that was more than welcome.

They’d come from their home, wherever that was, after, he supposes, making arrangements, and marched in Skyhold in Champion’s gear. Met with Varric and the Inquisitor, and joined them at the war table.

Cullen is surprised that Varric still breathes after what the inquisitor said happened between the two of them, considering he had lied about their whereabouts. It makes sense, really, since he was always their closest friend. Of course he knew where they were all along, but friends don’t sell out friends, even if Cullen disagrees.

He had been surprised, to say the least, to see the Champion. Given their strange history, he wasn’t exactly elated- with them being an ex-blood mage, the rebellion starter (or rather, the spouse of one). But he wasn’t upset about it either- they had protected him from abominations, from scrutiny, and from  _ Meredith.  _ And in the end, he had fought with them, like brothers in arms. 

Their reunion had been a little awkward, but softened by Varric filling the silence with catty jokes and smiles, and Hawke had laughed and shook his hand and told him, 

_ “You look good, Cullen, I’m glad to see you’re alright _ .”

He’s shaken out of his thoughts of them when the space between his eyes clenches. 

He’s in his office, today, like most days when he isn’t training recruits or out in the field. He’s seeing to paperwork concerning some missions that have come back from Crestwood, and his head is  _ aching. _

The withdrawal symptoms become more unbearable with every dose he drops, and the words on the parchment swim before his eyes and his hand feels unsteady on his quill.

He blinks and groans quietly to himself, pinching the bridge of his nose and closing his eyes to try and collect himself enough to just finish this work.

He should be better than this, he thinks, and he can feel his blood pressure rise at the thought, at the brick wall of a problem he faces, that he wishes would just  _ go away _ . He can’t bring himself to go back to using it, but every day he fears he’s becoming useless, that he’s not doing his job well enough without it-

But, no, the inquisitor had told him to  _ stay off of it _ . And then she had grabbed his face in her hands and told him she was there for him, 

“ _ anything you need, Cullen.” _

That thought alone dispels some of his anxiety, and he breathes out through his nose as he thinks of her.

Before he can pry his eyes open and get back to work, the door to his office swings open, afternoon sunlight and a chill breeze spilling into the room and rolling over his shoulders, cooling his forehead.

His thoughts of Orianna lead to him a sun hope that it’s her, but the form is far too short and moving too quickly.

It’s Hawke, he realizes, because the figure has a head of hair, unlike Orianna, and a red stripe over the crooked bridge of their nose.

They slam the door behind them and press themselves against it to secure it, and then a smile covers their face. 

He feels uneasy, not that he believes Hawke to have any malicious intent, especially not towards himself, but being locked in this little office with them, for seemingly no reason, out of the blue, it does have him a little concerned for what they might have planned to do or say.

“Hawke?”

He starts, looking up past his desk to them, to meet their eyes. He feels a pang between his eyebrows at the cool air inside now and the recoil of the door slamming and grunts under his breath, pinching his nose again.

They’ve always been good at noticing subtleties, and their grin falters to a narrowing of thin eyebrows, and then they cock their head and stalk towards him.

“What’s wrong, Cullen?”

He’s hardly used to being called that. It was knight-recruit, then knight-captain, and now, Commander. But hawke uses his name like they always have, and it still throws him off of his guard.

“Nothing. I’m fine, just a- just a headache.”

They ‘hmm’ under their breath and lean against his desk, pursing their lips as they look at him and the pile of paperwork he’s buried under.

“This much paperwork will do that,” they say, picking up a loose page and examining it before Cullen can snatch it back from them back into its neat pile.

“Maker, you’d think you're running a business, not a war effort.”

Cullen scoffs, sits back in his chair, more relaxed now. It  _ is  _ a business, and a war effort, and a refuge, a stockpile, more things he can’t be half-assed to name. It is the Inquisition, not a militia or a ragtag group of mercenaries. They are fighting  _ Corypheus _ and the possible end of Thedas as they know it, not some man with a sword that they don’t like. Like Orlais, he thinks bitterly.

He doesn’t bother expanding on that thought, not to Hawke, because he  _ knows _ that they already understand that. Their dry sense of humor overcomes any lick of common sense in the correct moments.

“Why are you in my office?”

He takes the page back and smooths it into its pile, turning his gaze to Hawke as they lean on his desk and shift their eyes across the room, suddenly seeming nervous and listless, very unlike themselves.

They quite literally twiddle their thumbs and shrug, and then turn to look him dead on with those large eyes.

“I haven’t really had a chance to, y'know. Actually speak with you, since my arrival.”

He narrows his eyes and furrows his brow in puzzlement, sitting back and crossing his arms over his chest and watching them as they shift to sit on the edge of the desk. 

“And what do you need to speak about, with me?”

They scoff, shaking their head and looking away.

“It’s been a while, Cullen. You’re… very…  _ different _ .” 

They look him over and he suddenly feels small and vulnerable, like they can see through him like thin parchment, like they suddenly know every thought in his head and every battle he’s facing, but that’s ridiculous.

“How so?” 

A question to their indirect question, it helps him build back up his facade and his walls before they can get further into his head. They always had a way with that, and he used to think it was a mage thing, but Hawke has proven they’re simply more perceptive than the average person, mage or no.

“Well you look different,  _ fuller,  _ in a way- wait,” they cough, “not fat!- just, uhm.”

Their eyes are flickering between humor and horror, and Cullen can’t help but stifle the laugh that escapes him at their awkwardness. His headache ignored for now, he watches them with interest.

They scowl at him, but laugh as well, shaking their head and black hair falls into those eyes.

“You look more, well, you look more  _ fulfilled _ . Calmer. You always seemed so flighty, like you were afraid of everything on the inside.”

Their voice tapers off quietly, realizing the vulnerability of the statement, and Cullen turns his head away in shame. They’re not wrong, the time in Kirkwall was some of the worst in his life. Still suffering from what happened at the Fereldan Tower, shoved unceremoniously into a new life and role in a new country, serving under an iron-gripped, unhinged commander.

Everything had been scary, and he still regrets the things he’d done and said because of that.

Hawke knows that, though, just how they regret the things that became of Kirkwall.

“If it makes it any better, I was scared too. Of all the  _ shit _ that was happening there.”

They stand, almost restlessly, and pace to his bookshelf and feign interest in his books.

“My- the love of my life did something that should’ve been unforgivable. But I  _ couldn’t-“ _

They choke a little and then clear their throat, standing up straighter, and Cullens eyes widen a little in surprise at the sudden open heartedness. Hawke had always been an open book, for the most part, but this is sudden. 

They’ve only just re-met after years of trying to forget Kirkwall. But he’d be lying if he said that seeing them hadn’t opened old wounds, for them both, apparently.

“I understand,” he says, surprising himself, even. Then, he couldn’t have understood, Anders had done something horrible, and he’d  _ lied _ to them to achieve it. Then, the only logical reaction to him was rage and scrutiny.

Now? Now, he sees deeper, he sees that Hawke had known things no one else knew, the why and the how, they  _ knew _ the man who had destroyed Kirkwall. Just how he has come to know the inquisitor.

He imagines for a moment if Orianna was responsible for the Conclave. He imagines for a moment if he’d been expected to plunge a sword into her heart in turn for it. 

And there is  _ no way _ \- it is unfathomable.

He sighs through his nose, and realizes he understands, now.

And suddenly, Hawke and Cullen go from apostate rebel and stately templar, to unlikely allies, to old, dear friends. 

“I am more… fulfilled. Like you said,” he turns himself towards them as they settle against his shelvery and hug their arms to themselves, “being the Commander gives me great purpose, real purpose. And I have found other things that do as well.”

They smile, to themselves, it seems, and look up to meet his eyes once more.

“The inquisitor?”

He coughs, a furious blush spreading like rapid wildfire over his cheeks, and he’s forced to look away again.

“So yes, then.” 

They laugh loudly, and suddenly he is in the square in high town, and he’s at his post, and they’re walking by, laughing like that, Anders on their arm, and Aveline scolding them, and Varric hiding his chuckles in his fist.

The nostalgia, a small piece of it unburdened by fear and regret, makes his stomach turn and flip.

“I’m so glad for you, she seems… capable. She knows what she’s about, at least,” they look at the ceiling and puff up their cheeks before cracking a grin, “and she’s pretty hot, too.”

Cullen blanches at that, eyes widening as the champion dissolves into laughter. 

He can’t say he doesn’t appreciate it, though, the fact that someone  _ knows _ , for sure, not just rumors, about him and Orianna. Keeping it secret is hard enough without the emotion he feels towards her bubbling over like an abandoned pot on a hot stove. 

And he is happy, in most ways. He has purpose, he has things to do and people who respect him, he has friends- in Cassandra, in Varric and Hawke, in others, and he has  _ her.  _ That strange, half-elven, mage inquisitor with a fade rift in her left palm, who makes his heart beat like a war drum.

“What about you, then?” He starts, standing, “you’ve pestered me about how I feel, about my, ahem- love life. You’re here, and it’s been years. What’s changed for you?”

They still for a long moment and blink one, long, slow, blink.

“I, besides the fact that I’m not  _ there, _ and I’m  _ here?  _ I don’t know.”

They look around awkwardly and take a deep breath.

“You remember. Anders and I had started fostering orphans from Darktown. There were six of them, then.”

He does remember, the children they’d moved into the estate to feed and house, just another extension of their good-, albeit strange, will,

“There’s still six. But we-“ they rock on their heels, “I shouldn’t tell you this. No one knows but me and Anders. We gained one, but we lost one, too.”

Cullen blinks at them, and then it dawns on him. One of their children has died.

He can’t really even begin to say he understands how that would feel. He’s never even had many conversations with a child, let alone raised one, only to lose them. But he’s heard that the pain a parent feels at child loss is one of the worst there can be.

“I’m-“ he begins to apologize, to offer condolences, but they raise a palm to silence them.

“Don’t. He died so fast, he got hurt when we fled Kirkwall.”

A long, pregnant pause passes, and Cullen finds it’s less awkward then he would’ve imagined. It’s just two people, pasts intertwined in the strangest way, reminiscing of painful things to try and seal them away for good.

“I don’t know why I told you that. It feels good that someone else knows. I see his face in my dreams every night, still.”

Cullen isn’t sure what to say, at a complete loss, really, but he places a gentle pat on their shoulder, and takes a deep breath as an idea comes to him. He could tell them something too, to ease the burden in the air.

“I’ll tell you something, too.” 

They look to him with huge eyes.

“I’ve weaned myself almost completely off of Lyrium. I still suffer from withdrawals, every day. I didn’t want to die one of the Chantry’s dogs. I want to be who I am, not who I believed I should be.”

The silence equals out, now, strange openness and vulnerability from them both, now. And they offer him a tiny, unsure smile, melancholy and sweet, 

“You’ve done a good job of that, then.”

He nods, looking across the stones of the walls of his office as his own walls come down.

“And you have as well, of being who you are. And thank you, from me personally, for coming to Fereldan. And for this.”

He doesn’t have to elaborate, they smile, and laugh, and release the hug they hold themselves in nervously. 

“I think that’s enough baring my soul for the day. I should let you get to work.”

They step back and he realizes they are both smiling, and he realizes that this moment will stay ingrained in his mind forever and ever, he will never forget the reunion conversation between himself, commander of the inquisition, and the champion of kirkwall.

“Ah, yes. I’ll be seeing you, Hawke, I’m sure.”

  
  
  
  
  
  



End file.
